by B R Snow
“Roxanne,” Caspian said, shaking her head. “I imagine any exhortations she has for Brock are reserved for certain activities.”
“That’s been my experience with Roxanne,” I said.
“One night at dinner at my parent’s place, she was just there,” Caspian said. “But I’m used to strange women showing up with Brock. It seems to be one of his favorite hobbies. Do you know her?”
“I do. She used to be the girlfriend of William Crawford before he died,” I said.
“That’s right. The candy magnate. I remember hearing about his death. Roxanne was his girlfriend. Interesting. What’s her background?”
“Softcore porn actress. Hooker. And apparently a very proficient gold-digger,” I said.
“She sounds perfect for my brother. I’m sure they’ll be very happy,” she said, taking a big gulp of wine. “But to answer your previous question, no, my parents never offered me any encouragement. Their interest in my artistic abilities only went as far as whether they’d be able to save a few bucks by having me paint the house.”
“Until you started selling your paintings for forty-five grand a pop, right?”
“Very good,” she said, nodding. “Yes, their level of interest definitely increased when they discovered that. But only from a financial standpoint. Their artistic sensibilities remained pedestrian.”
“Let me guess, they bought by the square foot.”
“Bought? You must be joking,” Caspian said, laughing as she drained the last of her wine. “As soon as I got successful, they expected me to give each of them a painting on their birthdays, plus one at Christmas.”
“At least it took the hassle out of trying to shop for them, right?”
Caspian let loose with a real laugh. I didn’t know she had it in her. She headed for the kitchen area and returned carrying a wine bottle. She refilled our glasses and settled back into the couch. I couldn’t hold back any longer, so I leaned forward in my chair.
“I’m sorry, Caspian, but I just have to ask. What’s the deal with the whiteface? You got some sort of Geisha fixation going on?”
She looked at me and blinked several times in succession.
“I started doing it when I was a teenager. It was my own juvenile way of making an artistic protest about the whitewash that is my family. And soon I realized that the tighter I tied my hair up, the less expressive my face became. Eventually, I became the invisible person in the room and the family afterthought I had always hoped I’d become.”
“That’s sad,” I whispered.
“No, that’s survival,” she said with a casual shrug. “Now, my appearance has become a central component of my personal brand. But in all honesty, I’ve just gotten used to people not having a clue what I look like or what I’m thinking. And I like that.”
“And your parents didn’t give you a hard time about it?”
“They did at first,” she said. “But they had much bigger problems they were doing their best to avoid dealing with.”
I found her statement fascinating and glanced back up at the duck painting.
“Are you sure you won’t consider selling that one?”
“I’m quite sure,” she said, taking a sip of wine.
“Lucinda is really struggling to keep up,” I said, without taking my eyes off the painting. “But it looks like Buggy, I mean Wilbur, has completely given up.”
Caspian glanced up at the painting, then gave me a long, cold stare.
“Why are you here, Suzy?”
“That’s a good question, Caspian,” I said, exhaling loudly. “I learned a few things about your family today and wanted to talk to someone about it. But primarily, I’m here because I just can’t help myself.”
“Help yourself from doing what?”
“Trying to figure out what the heck is going on,” I said.
“Join the club,” Caspian said. “What have you figured out?”
“A bit,” I said. “Two different blood types were found at the scene, and the police pulled all your family members’ records. As soon as they identified your brother’s type as AB negative, they knew he had a different father. And then they added Lucinda when they saw she had the same type as Wilbur.”
“Decades of a family secret crumbling in a flash,” she said, snapping her fingers. “Just like that.”
“Just like that. Do you know who Wilbur and Lucinda’s father is?”
“Was. And, yes, I do,” she whispered.
“Can you tell me?”
“No.”
“Can you tell me the birth order of your siblings?”
“Sure. Wilbur was the oldest, then came Brock, followed by Bentley, then Lucinda, then me. I’m the youngest by quite a few years.”
“Your mother alternated kids between both men?” I said, frowning.
“Pretty much. I think she thought it increased her chances of having at least one normal kid,” Caspian said, laughing.
It wasn’t a happy laugh.
“How did you ever figure it out?” I said. “Was it discussed around the house?”
“Of course not,” she said, blinking at me several times. “And I didn’t put it together until much later after Wilbur disappeared and Brock and Bentley were off faking their way through their so-called careers. Lucinda and I were the only two kids left in the house with my parents.”
“But how did you find out?”
“Like I said, eventually I achieved my goal of becoming the family afterthought. And there are some distinct advantages of being the invisible person in the room.”
“They discussed it in front of you?” I said.
“Not intentionally, I’m sure. But when my parents drank, they tended to forget where they were and who might be hanging around. And they drank a lot.”
“Did you tell Lucinda what you overheard?” I said.
I knew I was being overly snoopy and had probably already crossed the line, but Caspian didn’t seem to mind my questions. Maybe it just felt good to get it off her chest. Then as I watched her drain a full glass of wine, I wondered if maybe she’d started early in the day and had completely forgotten where she was and who might be hanging around.
“Yes, I remember heading upstairs right away to tell her,” she said, refilling her glass. “We were very close back then.”
“I noticed some tension between the two of you at dinner the other night,” I said.
“Good work, Sherlock,” she said, laughing. “It’d be pretty hard to miss that. Lucinda hates my guts. And I must admit that the feeling is starting to become mutual.”
I flinched at the cold tone Caspian used to deliver the comment about her sister. As an only child, I could only wonder what it took to profess hatred for one’s sister.
“What happened after you told her?”
“Lucinda didn’t believe me at first, but then it started to make sense to her. She cried for a couple of days, then she made the biggest decision of her life.”
“She decided to do everything she could to stay on your parent’s good side, right?” I said.
“Your reputation is well deserved, Suzy,” Caspian said, giving me a look I took as admiration. “Yes, after watching what had happened to Wilbur, Lucinda was scared to death that the same thing might happen to her.”
“Would your parents have done that to her?”
“They’d already done it once. And Lucinda decided that the best way to prevent it from happening again would be to prove to them that they couldn’t live without her. So she became a world-class suck up. It disgusted me. And as I’m sure you noticed the other night, it’s a role that Lucinda continues to play to this day.”
“But why does Lucinda hate you?
“Because I got out.”
Caspian shrugged as she got to her feet and staggered toward the kitchen area. Moments later, she returned holding a fresh bottle of wine. I waved off her offer of a refill and waited until she got settled back on the couch with a fresh glass.
“What so
rt of relationship did your father and mother have?” I said.
“You mean apart from the two illegitimate kids?” she deadpanned, then laughed.
Her laughter was coming easily now, but it was dark and cynical. But she still seemed comfortable with the conversation, so I pressed on.
“Yeah, apart from that,” I said.
“Suzy, the story of my parents’ relationship would take days to tell,” she said, leaning her head against the back of the couch and staring up at the ceiling fan that was slowly rotating above her head. “Maybe I’ll write it all down someday. You know, when I write the memoir of Caspian Winters, avant-garde abstract painter, and absurdist extraordinaire.”
“What about Wilbur?” I said.
“What about him?”
“Did he ever reach out to you?”
“Three times in twenty years,” she said, flatly. “The first time was a few months after he left when he called to ask me if I understood why he had to leave. The second was a couple years after that when called to apologize for being such a screw-up and that he needed some money.”
“Did you give it to him?”
“Of course,” she said, nodding. “I loved Wilbur. He was the only one who encouraged me to paint. I missed him terribly.”
“Did you ever try to find him?” I said.
“No,” Caspian whispered.
“Why not?”
“Because he asked me not to,” she said, draining half her glass. “And when he called the second time, I was going through what I like to call my Agoraphobic Period.”
“Agoraphobia? That can be debilitating.”
“I’m a lot better at dealing with it now. But during one stretch, I didn’t go outside for four years,” she said. “As you might expect, it was a particularly productive time. I did over a hundred paintings.”
I noticed her breathing pattern had increased and her eyes were narrowed. Not wanting to witness any more emotional outbursts today, I let her revelation pass without comment.
“The third time Wilbur contacted me was last week.”
“Really?”
“He’d just heard about father’s death, and said he was coming to town. And he said he was bringing his girlfriend with him. Wilbur said she was very special and that she reminded him of me.”
I flinched when I heard that. After spending the morning with Claudine, the last thing I wanted to hear was that the woman sitting across from me wearing whiteface and pounding Pinot Grigio might also be taking enough antidepressants to choke a horse.
“I’m sure the girl is troubled,” Caspian said. “Wilbur was always devoted to lost souls. Like me.”
“You’re not that lost, Caspian,” I said.
“And you, my friend, don’t have a clue what you’re talking about,” she said, chugging the rest of her wine. “But I like you, Suzy. You’re…unencumbered.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been called that before,” I said.
“Well, you should have been,” Caspian said, as the wine started to set its hooks deep. “It’s a good word. Imaginative. Agile.”
“Illogical,” I said, chuckling.
“No, I wouldn’t use that word,” she said, topping off her glass. “You’re just incredibly nosy.”
“I prefer the word curious.”
“I’m sure you do. But I find your curiosity most endearing. Because I believe your motives come from a good heart. Like Wilbur’s.”
“Thanks,” I said, looking for a way to end the conversation and get on the road. “Did you get a chance to see him before he died?”
“No, I did not,” she said. “I didn’t even know Wilbur had arrived in town. So I guess you can cross me off whatever list of suspects you’re working from.”
I was starting to see the resemblance between Caspian and Claudine and was about to say my goodbyes when Caspian’s phone rang. She glanced down at the number, frowned, then shook her head and answered the call.
“This is Caspian.”
I watched her reaction as she listened to what the person on the other end of the line was saying. Caspian started blinking and kept it up as the call continued. Then she closed her eyes, and a soft sigh escaped.
“I see. Yes, I understand…I said I understand, Lucinda. Yes, I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
Caspian tossed the phone on the couch and rubbed her forehead.
“Wow,” she whispered. “How about that?”
“What is it?”
“My mother never woke up from her afternoon nap.”
It was another one of those times when whatever you come up with never seems to measure up to the moment. Knowing I was destined to fall short with whatever I did choose to say, I decided to go with the tried and true response I had used all too often in the past.
“I’m so sorry, Caspian.”
She stared at me, blinked twice, then whispered.
“Why?”
Chapter 13
After spending most of the day with Claudine and Caspian, I wanted to spend the evening surrounded by friends. More specifically, after witnessing the impact that a solitary lifestyle could have on one’s psyche, the last thing I wanted was to be alone. But Josie was with Summerman, and Chef Claire was working. So I called Jackson and Detective Abrams and invited them to dinner, ostensibly to catch up on what we’d all learned about the bank robbery and the demise of Buggy Winters.
I got a beef stew simmering on the stove, then settled on the couch with Chloe and Captain while I waited for my dinner guests to arrive. As I rubbed both dogs’ heads, I glanced up at the bare wall above the fireplace and decided that perhaps a painting would be a nice addition. But not one that cost anywhere near forty-five grand. And definitely not At the Gates of Hell. I’d spent most of my day there, and the last thing I needed were any reminders.
Jackson and Detective Abrams arrived with their dogs in separate cars at the same time, and I got them settled in with a beer and a snack plate, while Jackson’s bulldog, Sluggo, and Detective Abrams’ Basset Hound, Wally, got reacquainted with Chloe and Captain.
“Dinner’s about twenty minutes away,” I said, tucking my legs underneath me as I sat back down on the couch.
“No wine tonight?” Jackson said, nodding at my empty hand.
“No, I had some this afternoon. And it seems like a good night to take a break from alcohol.”
“You want to talk about it?” Jackson said.
I recounted my visit with Caspian first. When I finished, both men seemed to have permanent frowns etched on.
“I can’t believe the old woman is gone,” Detective Abrams said. “I thought she was going to live forever.”
“Yeah, so did I. And I can’t believe Caspian wears that whiteface around the house,” Jackson said.
“Artists, huh?” Detective Abrams said, compiling a small plate of snacks from the tray on the coffee table in front of him. “You’re sure that Brock and Bentley know the deal about their mom having two kids from another father?”
“Yeah, Caspian said that she told them several years ago just so they could share the experience,” I said. “And it’s pretty clear she loathes both of them. She considers both of her brothers inveterate pond scum. Her words, not mine.”
“You think she could have been the one who killed Buggy?” Jackson said.
“I don’t think so, but I’ve learned never to assume anything,” I said, frowning. “And Caspian has a ton of rage just below the surface. I only got a glimpse of it this afternoon, but it scared the hell out of me.”
“I like Buggy’s girlfriend for it,” Jackson said.
“Why?”
“Why? Geez, Suzy, you spent half your day seeing it firsthand. That woman goes off like a rocket when she gets mad.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said. “By the way, what blood type does she have?”
“O positive,” Jackson said.
“So, you can’t exclude her as a suspect,” I said, reaching for a cracker.
“No, we
can’t. And the blood type doesn’t really mean anything when it comes to the murder,” Jackson said.
“Did she give you any trouble when you took the sample?” I said.
“Not at all,” Jackson said. “She just sat on the edge of the bed holding her dog. But she was crying the whole time.”
“It’s so sad,” I said. “When Claudine’s lucid, she seems like a sweet person.”
“And a raving lunatic when she’s not,” Jackson said. “She’s dangerous, and you know it, Suzy.”
“I think she’s more of a danger to herself, Jackson.”
“And SUVs?”
“Now that was scary,” I said, nodding. “Did either one of you ever hear any rumors about Mrs. Winters having a couple of illegitimate kids?”
They both shook their heads.
“That seems like a pretty hard thing to keep quiet around here,” I said.
“Well, the family always kept to themselves,” Detective Abrams said. “Caspian was certain that the guy is dead?”
“She seemed to be.”
“Well, it might be a good idea to keep an eye on the memorial service and funeral to see if anyone shows up who could fit the description. You know, someone needing to say goodbye to a former lover,” Detective Abrams said. “And Jackson and I can ask some of the old-timers around town if they ever heard anything about it.”
“Couldn’t hurt,” I said.
My phone buzzed, and I glanced at the number. It was local and seemed familiar although I couldn’t identify it.
“This is Suzy. Oh, hi, Mr. Johnson…I see…Yes, I’ll be right over.”
I ended the call and stared off into space.
“What is it?” Jackson said.
“Claudine’s gone,” I said, gently sliding the sleeping Chloe off my lap before I stood up.
“Where the heck did she go?” Jackson said.
“Mr. Johnson doesn’t know,” I said. “He said he heard Otto making a racket and scratching at the door inside her room. And when he went in, all he found was the dog, and a note addressed to me.”
“She left her dog behind?” Detective Abrams said. “After she made all that effort to get here and find him? That doesn’t make any sense.”